5 mornings in Jerusalem

Wednesday, April 30:

It’s Yom HaZikaron. Israel’s Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror. I’m standing in my garden. Waiting for the siren. It’s a sound of mourning, every year at 11 a.m. (also at 8 p.m. the night before, and at 10 a.m. on Yom HaShoah). My heart jumps as it blares. Suddenly, even though I know the time. It’s so similar to the rocket alerts that send the country rushing to safe rooms, bomb shelters. I know there’s no immediate danger now, but my nervous system doesn’t care. I’m tense, beyond the sorrow of the day. 

A friend stops by. Her best friend was just diagnosed with cancer. A good friend of mine has cancer, too. We comfort each other over bowls of soup. 

The sky has turned yellow. There’s a sandstorm. Dust is in the air. Ashes are falling into my yard. Smoke is on the wind. My social media is filled with fire. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s not one fire, but many, one after another. My family and friends outside of Jerusalem, but not too far, are being evacuated. 

I exhaust myself from anxiety. It’s too much. And all in one day. Pictures of the destruction stop me in my tracks. The Yom HaAtzmaut events we had planned to attend are canceled. I go to pray, and then turn in early, wondering if the Home Front Command will wake us to evacuate our neighborhood. 

As I close my eyes, I hear unseasonable raindrops striking my bedroom windows, and I cry. 

Thursday, May 1:

The skies are clear, but the fires are still burning. All I want to do is stay in bed and curl up. 

Soon, I hear that the highways are open. I can’t bring myself to reinstate our traditional plans that would take us up Route 1 to survey all the damage near the highway. The trauma of yesterday still clings to the air. Thank God, they are close to containing the fires, but I worry about the winds that wreaked havoc yesterday, or fires starting anew. I’ve seen videos from yesterday of people abandoning their cars on the same highway and running from them. But it is still Yom HaAtzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day. I believe in celebrating our existence, the existence of the State of Israel. We’re still here, I whisper to myself on repeat. Part of me cowers from the horror, the suffering, the damage. 

But I demand of myself, “Get up for the kids. How you respond is what they will remember.” 

So I get up, and I get dressed, and I prepare food for two different events with family and friends. We drive the highways and bake cookies and commiserate with the people we love and listen to music and watch the children play with full gusto. I feel myself balancing out. I remember how resilient we are. How proud I am of my children. How strong our country is. How blessed we are to live here. 

I fall asleep that night exhausted and grateful for the afternoon of fun, even in all the madness. 

Friday, May 2:

I meet my mother, my sister, and her kids at the mall. I smile when the baby smiles and buy myself a book for Shabbat. The challahs from the bakery are all lined up on the table, sesame seeds coating the floors. My husband meets me and we buy flowers for Shabbat and I go home and bake challah, making extras to give to my neighbors. We wipe down our garden from the sandstorm and the ashes. I make an enormous pot of soup. I light candles to welcome Shabbat. When I go to sleep, I leave my robe and slippers by the foot of my bed just in case. Like always.

Shabbat, May 3:

6:30 a.m. I wake up, my heart pounding. A siren is blaring. My nervous system tells me to run; I stumble down the stairs to the bomb shelter. My neighbors and I swap pleasantries. “Who is it?” we ask, wiping sleep from our eyes. What is that?! Is it another siren? Is it the birds outside? My neighbor’s dog is trembling. We wonder where the couple from upstairs is — are they home for Shabbat? Was that another explosion? Is it safe to go back into our homes?

When it ends, I go back to sleep. My cousins come for lunch. The house is packed with children and babies and we laugh all day and watch the kids get all their energy out. We eat until we’re stuffed, and we sit together telling each other stories into dusk. The stars twinkle in the sky and we crowd around the candle to make Havdalah and count the Omer. 

Sunday, May 4:

There is a school strike (again), so I’m ready for a slow morning. The kids burst into my room. Is there school they ask? Another strike? What time do classes start? Will they start at all? Oh, the strike is illegal? School starts in half an hour? Is anyone going? Oh, no one is going? Some are going. We make our way to school, and everyone is screaming at drop-off. Wait! There’s an alert from the Home Front Command. Is there going to be a siren here? Do we need to head to the shelters? Oh, it’s not in this area.

BOOM. 

Oh gosh, did you hear that? WhatsApp DING, DING, DINGs. Did you hear that? All of Israel heard that. What the heck was that? Impacts at Ben Gurion. What? There’s smoke — have you seen the video? Flights are paused… Flights resume. My day resumes. 

But the IDF reservists are being called up — including in my family. And I hold my breath for this next stage of the war. 

I need a minute. I lay back and listen to the birds chirping, the messages coming in from my phone. The sound of the warplanes rumbles overhead, and I feel my body tense. I take deep breaths, six seconds in, six seconds out, and talk to my nervous system. I try to get myself to be still. I close my eyes. I remember that life can change on a dime. I remember that we know how to do hard things. One more breath, and I pick up my phone, ready to face my day.